THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


1  lrf-c  i 


STUDIES   IN   VERSE. 


BY 


CHARLES    QUIET. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT   &   CO. 
1878. 


Copyright,  1878,  by  J.  B.  LiPPiNCOTT  &  Co. 


-PS 


CONTENTS. 


THE  PRODIGAL 5 

To  A  FIREFLY    .        ....        ...        .6 

SONNET       7 

MY  SOLDIER 8 

THE  TROUT 10 

THE  BUMBLE-BEE n 

STRAWBERRIES,  GROWING  UPON  GRAVES    .        .        .        .12 

FAILURE      .        .        . 13 

INSTEAD 17 

SING  TO  ME,  DEAREST 18 

JEALOUSY 19 

TIRED          .        .        . 20 

DROUGHT 20 

BEFORE  WAKING 21 

MY  CREED 22 

SUNRISE 24 

CORNPLANTER 25 

SNOW  .        . 27 

POET  AND  LILY 28 

HEINE  (Buch  der  Lieder) 30 

CHURCH-BELLS 31 

MOONRISE 32 

THE  WALK 33 

WHY? 36 

MOONLIGHT 38 

LOCUST-BLOSSOMS 40 

FAITH -41 

THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE 42 

764003  3 


4  CONTENTS. 

PA'GB- 

VOICES  OF  THE  FOREST 45 

LAWYER  AND  POET 56 

Two  THOUGHTS 57 

To  A  FRIEND  ON  HIS  WEDDING-DAY        .        .        .        .58 

MORNING 59 

A  SUMMER  NIGHT 61 

POESY 62 

BUT -63 

WITHERED  VIOLETS  64 

WITH  A  COPY  OF  WALTON'S  "ANGLER"  .        .        .        .65 

SUSPENSE 66 

THE  HILL 67 


THE    PRODIGAL. 

O  MOTHER,  wait  until  my  work  is  done  ! 

Loose  thy  strong  arms  that  draw  me  to  thy  breast 

Till  I  am  ready  to  lie  down  and  rest ; 
Grudge  not  to  me  the  kisses  of  the  sun. 

Fear  not,  fond  earth,  thy  strong  love  holds  me  fast ; 

Thou  art  mine  heir, — I  shall  be  thine  at  last. 

O  cousin  roses  !  thirst  not  for  my  blood 

To  dye  your  paling  cheeks.     O  rank,  wild  grass  ! 

Clutch  not  with  greedy  fingers  as  I  pass. 
And  you,  great  hungry  giants  of  the  wood  ! 

Let  not  your  roots  for  my  rich  juices  yearn. 

Mine  shall  be  yours,  but  you  must  wait  your  turn. 

O  roses,  grasses,  trees!     I  am  your  kin, — 

Your  prodigal  blood-cousin,  now  grown  strange 
With  many  wanderings  through  the  lands  of  Change. 

You  lent  me  of  your  substance,  and  I've  been 
A  wasteful  steward ;  yet  I  shall  bring  back 
My  whole  inheritance, — you  shall  not  lack. 

Divide  my  all  amongst  you ;  'twas  but  lent 
To  me  a  while  to  use.     Part  heart  and  brain, 
Matter  and  force,  until  there  shall  remain 

Of  me  no  shadow ;  I  am  well  content. 
Order  and  chaos  wage  eternal  strife  ; 
The  end  of  living  is  to  bring  forth  life. 


6  TO  A   FIREFLY. 

Guardian  of  thoughts,  immortal  memory  ! 

Keep  thou  immortal  some  good  thought  of  mine, 
Which,  in  oblivion's  dark,  may  softly  shine 

Like  the  pale  fox-fire  of  a  rotting  tree. 
If  thou  do  keep  but  one  song-child  alive, 
In  its  sweet  body  shall  my  soul  survive. 


TO    A    FIREFLY. 

AGAINST  the  boundless  night 

Thou,  with  stout  heart,  dost  set  thy  tiny  flame. 
Brave  little  beacon  !  thy  one  drop  of  light 

Doth  put  my  life;  to  shame. 

Though  small  thy  lamp, 

No  brightest  star  may  vaunt  itself  o'er  thee, 
As  home,  belated,  to  his  grassy  camp 

Thou  lightest  the  tired  bee. 

Thy  mission  no  man  knows 

To  judge  of  thee.     The  mites  thy  critics  are ; 
To  the  small  folk  that  populate  yon  rose 

Perhaps  thou  art  a  star.  « 

Atom  of  the  same  light 

That  floods  the  world  from  "the  bright  sun  at  noon, 
Above  the  insect  cities,  thou,  to-night, 

Dost  hang  like  a  white  moon. 


SONNET. 

The  world  of  mites  is  glad 

To  see  in  its  low  heaven  thy  small  spark. 
My  useless  life — a  smoking  torch — doth  add 

But  darkness  unto  dark. 


SONNET. 

THY  spirit,  love,  is  white  as  fresh  fall'n  snow. 
Thine  eyes — I  know  not  of  what  gentle  hue — 
So  light  and  lucid  are,  that  I  look  through 
And  see,  within,  the  still  thoughts  come  and  go 
Across  the  mirror  of  thy  soul,  and  know 
Each  thrill  of  joy,  each  quick,  sharp  stab  of  pain. 
Oh,  lily  soul,  with  never  spot  nor  stain 
Within  the  chamber  of  thy  memory  ! 
My  love  for  thee  presumption  seems  and  vain, 
As  through  those  secret  rooms  of  thought  I  see 
All  saintly  virtues  move  in  silent  train, — 
Calm  Faith,  bright  Hope,  meek-eyed  Humility, 
Strong  Truth,  and  Love,  whose  starry  eyes  divine 
Light  up  my  darkened  life,  though  not  for  me  they 
shine. 


MY  SOLDIER. 


MY    SOLDIER. 

THE  day  still  lingers,  though  the  sun  is  down, 
Kissing  the  earth,  and  loth  to  say  good-by ; 

While  night,  impatient,  shows  her  starry  crown 
Just  glinting  through  the  curtains  of  the  sky. 

I  sit  within  the  door  and  try  to  knit ; 

Some  sadness  of  the  sky  provokes  my  tears ; 
And  memory  finds  some  subtle  charm  in  it 

To  lead  me  back  through  melancholy  years, 

Until  she  brings  me  to  that  summer's  day, 
When  a  tall  shadow  fell  across  the  floor, 

Lingered  a  moment  and  then  stole  away, 

Following  my  soldier  through  the  open  door. 

My  soldier !     He  was  all  the  war  to  me  ; 

His  safety  all  the  victory  I  craved. 
Morn,  noon,  and  night  I  prayed  that  I  might  see 

My  soldier — I  forgot  my  country — saved. 

When  came  a  letter  full  of  love  and  cheer, 
Telling  of  victory  with  proud  delight, 

The  mother's  pride  o'ercame  the  mother's  fear, 
And  I  was  happy  in  my  dreams  that  night. 

But  when  none  came,  and  news  of  battles  fell 
Around  me  like  hot  flakes  of  fire  instead 

O  God  !  if  I  have  loved  my  boy  too  well, 
Put  against  that  those  days  of  awful  dread. 


MY  SOLDIER.  9 

My  soldier  !  and  it  seems  but  yesterday 

His  baby  gums  were  mumbling  at  my  breast. 

I'm  half  persuaded  now  he's  out  at  play, 

And  I  have  slept  within  and  dreamt  the  rest ; 

For  it  does  seem  so  strange  to  me  that  he, 
My  baby,  my  rosy-cheeked  and  azure-eyed, — 

The  cherub  boy  I  dandled  on  my  knee, — 
Should  have  become  a  hero  and  have  died. 

My  chubby  baby,  prattling  to  his  toys  ! 

My  stalwart  soldier  kissing  me  good-by  ! 
My  heart  will  have  it  she  hath  lost  two  boys, 

And  lends  to  grief  a  twofold  agony. 

And  day  by  day,  as  the  dear  form  I  miss, 
Fierce- longing  burns  within  me  like  a  flame, 

Till  all  the  world  I'd  barter  for  a  kiss, 

And  walk  through  fire  to  hear  him  call  my  name. 

'Twere  not  so  sad  could  I  have  watched  his  face, 
Soothed  his  last  hours,  and  closed  his  dear,  dead  eyes; 

And  it  would  comfort  me  to  mark  the  place 
With  a  wild-rose  bush  where  my  darling  lies. 

But,  knowing  nothing,  save  that  he  is  dead, 
I  long  'neath  yonder  daisy-dotted  knoll 

To  rest  in  peace  my  old,  grief-whitened  head. 
Earth  hath  no  crumb  of  comfort  for  my  soul. 


I0  THE    TROUT. 


THE    TROUT. 

POOR,  speckled  beauty  of  the  brook  ! 

In  this  dim  solitude  my  heart  is  free 
To  pity  thee,  thus  quivering  on  my  hook 

In  voiceless  agony. 

Yet,  they  who  pity  not  deserve 

Not  to  be  pitied ;  when,  my  cannibal, 

Didst  thou  from  tender  troutlings  ever  swerve 
At  pity's  gentle  call? 

Thou  handsome  brigand  !  lurking  in  the  dark 
Of  some  deep  pool,  with  stealthy,  nervous  fin, — 

Hungry  and  cruel  as  a  ravenous  shark, — 
To  slaughter  thine  own  kin  ; 

Or,  with  a  sudden  flash  of  ruby  light, 
Gleaming  along  the  riffle's  rugged  crest, 

Drawn  from  thy  pebbly  grotto  by  the  sight 
Of  some  moth's  dusty  breast. 

How  beautiful!  how  heartless  !     Like 

Some  human  lives  was  thine.     There  be  that  lie 

In  wait,  like  thee,  with  hungry  jaw,  to  strike 
The  heedless  passer-by. 

But  wily  fishermen  do  ply 

In  this  our  bigger  brook,  "and  oft,  too  late, 
Greed  finds,  beneath  Ambition's  tempting  fly, 

The  barbed  hook  of  fate. 


THE  BUMBLE-BEE.  n 

In  fish  and  man  one  passion  burns ; 

Strong  robs  the  weak,  and,  ere  the  spoil  be  done, 
A  stronger  robs  the  robber.     Death  returns 

To  every  one  his  own. 

You  supped  on  flies  and  worms,  my  trout ; 

For  all  my  pity  I  shall  sup  on  thee ; 
And  death  shall  but  work  even  justice  out 

When  worms  shall  sup  on  me. 


THE    BUMBLE-BEE. 

BUZZING  little  busy-body  ! 

Happy  little  hay-field  rover  ! 
Don't  you  feel  your  own  importance, 

Bustling  through  these  wilds  of  clover  ? 

Don't  your  little  wings  grow  weary 

Of  this  never-ceasing  labor  ? 
When  the  butterfly  swings  near  you, 

Envy  you  your  idle  neighbor? 

Stay  a  moment — stay  and  tell  me  ! 

Won't  my  gossip  make  you  tarry  ? 
Hurry  home,  then,  honey-laden, 

Fast  as  busy  wings  can  carry. 

Fare  thee  well,  my  tiny  toiler, 

Noisy  little  mid-air  steamer  ! 
Thou  hast  taught  a  wholesome  lesson 

To  an  idle  daylight  dreamer. 


12      STRAWBERRIES,  GROWING   UPON  GRAVES. 

Lying  here  among  the  blossoms, 
While  the  dusky  night  advances, 

With  her  shadowy  battalions 

Driving  back  day's  golden  lances, 

I  have  dreamed  of  great  achievements 

In  the  future's  glorious  hours ; 
But  you  teach  me  to  make  honey 

From  the  sweets  of  present  flowers. 


STRAWBERRIES,  GROWING    UPON 
GRAVES. 

SHALL  I  refuse  thy  largess,  little  vine, 

Because  thy  hungry  roots  feed  on  my  dead, 

Sucking  from  bloodless  lips  the  blood-like  wine 
That  dyes  thy  berries  red  ? 

Nay,  all  the  happy,  living  things  I  see 

Are  of  the  substance  of  dead  things  that  were ; 

The  heart  that  loved  me  once  sends  up  to  me 
Remembrancers  of  her. 

Feed  me  to-day;  grudge  not  my  dainty  fare. 

I  am  no  beggar  asking  alms  of  thee, 
One  moment  I  enjoy  thy  berries  rare ; — 

Thou  shalt  feast  long  on  me. 


FAILURE. 


FAILURE. 

COME,  John,  sit  down  by  me ;  it  frets  my  soul 
To  see  you  walking  up  and  down  the  room  ; 
The  thud  of  your  slow  feet  is 'like  the  fall 
Of  clods  into  a  grave.     I  cannot  bear 
To  see  that  head,  that  never  stooped  before, 
Bowed  on  your  breast  in  silent  agony, — 
It  maddens  me, — for  well  I  know  you  feel 
The  deep  disgrace  of  rearing  drunken  sons 
More  than  the  grief  of  losing. 

Come,  sit  down, 

For  all  my  mother  instincts  are  awake, 
And  longings  fierce,  intense,  and  tigerish  prove 
All  mothers — beasts  or  women — are  alike. 
I  almost  hate  you  for  your  pride.     Your  face 
Is  rigid  and  monotonous  and  dry 
As  some  dry  desert.     Is  there  no  remorse 
Gnawing  your  heart-strings?  does  not  sorrow  thrumb 
The  tight-drawn  strings  of  pain  until  your  heart 
Is  numb  with  aching? 

Oh,  the  glorious  strength 
Of  manhood,  that  can  find  no  room  for  grief 
For  very  pride  of  heart !     Oh,  selfish  men  ! 
What  do  you  know  of  woman's  bliss  and  pain 
More  than  of  childbirth  ?     In  her  twofold  life 
The  mother  learns  a  deeper  mystery 
Of  pain  and  pleasure.     In  her  child  she  lives, 

2 


I4  FAILURE. 

And  suffers,  and  is  happy.     She  can  feel 
The  joy-  and  grief-throbs  of  its  little  heart 
In  her  responsive  breast.     The  child  is  but 
A  little  of  herself.     The  good  is  hers, 
And  even  the  bad  worst,  her  secret  heart 
Owns  for  its  own  and  covers  with  a  veil 
Of  palliation. 

Oh,  my  wayward  boy  ! 
My  erring  lost  one  ! 

Yes,  I  will  be  calm. 

Your  voice  could  always  calm  me.     Can  you  tell 
How  many  years  since  you  have  held  me  thus 
Close  to  your  breast,  my  husband  ?  Does  it  seem 
So  long  since  we  were  young?    To  me  the  past 
Is  but  a  yesterday.     I  could  believe 
It  was  last  week  that  we  sat  talking  thus 
With  our  one  boy, — your  pride,  my  all  in  all, — 
Crowing  and  tossing  up  his  small,  fat  hands 
In  awkward  baby-grace  upon  our  laps. 
Have  you  forgotten,  John,  that  summer's  night 
When  we  were  wondering  what  our  boy  would  be 
When  he  grew  up  ?  and  how  you  proudly  said 
That  some  day  Johnny  should  be  President? 
But  I  said  I  loved  best  to  think  him  still 
A  little  baby,  nestling  his  small  head 
Close  to  my  breast,  and  looking  up  to  mine 
With  pleading  eyes  for  comfort  in  his  pain  : 
And  then  you  laughed,  and  told  me  I  would  spoil 
The    boy   with    petting?      Ah,    John,    who    spoiled 

most? 

You,  with  your  noble  sternness,  sparing  not 
Your  heart  nor  his  to  force  him  tp  grow  up 
Straight-trunked  and  fruitful  like  yourself;  or  I, 


FAILURE.  !5 

Twining  my  love  about  him,  like  a  vine, 

To  hide  his  ragged  branches  with  green  leaves? 

I    know    we    both    were    wrong,  —  but    you    wrong 

most, — 

For  you  forgot  that  to  the  little  shoot 
God  whispers  how  to  grow ;  the  husbandman 
But  loosens  the  firm  soil,  pulls  out  the  weeds, 
And  gives  its  growth  free  way.     You  tried  to  raise 
An  oak  from  a  young  thorn  ;  my  woman's  eyes 
Softened  its  fibres  with  too  many  rains. 

We  could  do  better,  John,  if  God  had  pleased 
To  trust  us  to  train  up  another  son. 
Alas,  we  have  none  other !     This  was  all. 
This,  that  refused  to  walk  in  the  straight  road, 
Rocky  and  flowerless,  that  you  made  for  him, 
But  jumped  the  hedge  and  ran  his  own  wild  course 
Among  the  snares  and  pitfalls  ;  this,  that  brought 
Shame  to  your  head  and  sorrow  to  my  heart ; 
That  left  our  door  that  stormy  winter  night 
With  your  grim  benediction,  and  my  prayers 
Following  his  staggering  steps  ;  this,  that  came  home 
Only  last  night,  with  his  young  limbs  all  gnashed 
And  crunched  by  cruel  car-wheels,  was  our  all : 
Our  baby  boy,  that,  some  short  years  ago, 
We  tossed  and  kissed  between  us  ! 

Oh,  my  God  ! 

And  shall  I  never  see  my  boy  again  ! 
I  cannot  think  of  never;  shall  to-day 
Succeed  to  yesterday,  and  yesterday 
Glide  backward  to  last  year?     The  years  grow  old, 
And  each  in  passing  leave  a  few  gray  hairs 
And  a  new  grief  mark,  till  my  head  is  white 


1 6  FAILURE. 

And  my  face  seamed  and  ugly?     Shall  my  strength 

Ooze  out  a  grain  a  day,  till  my  light  step 

Become  a  feeble  hobble?     Shall  I  still 

Live  on,  and  on,  and  on,  and  die  at  last 

Of  utter  uselessness,  and  until  death 

Still  yearn  and  yearn,  and  never  see  him  once? 

Oh,  God,  I  cannot  bear  it ! 

Let  me  go  ! 

You  cannot  comfort  me  with  Scripture  texts, 
Nor  make  me  say  that  it  is  better  so. 
I  know  he  was  a  drunkard,  and  his  life 
One  round  of  vice  and  crime.     I  know  how  small 
The  hope  of  his  reform, — but  he  was  mine. 
Crime  could  not  make  of  him  a  thing  so  low 
But  he  could  love  his  mother,  and  that  love 
Was  more  to  me  than  goodness.     Ah,  who. knows 
How  many  times  he  may  have  longed  to  come 
And  lay  his  head  upon  her  breast  again, 
And  your  cold  looks  prevented?     Who  can  tell 
What  angel  guided  home  his  reeling  steps 
That   awful    night?      Who   knows   what    might    have 

been 

But  for  your  bitter  words,  that  drove  him  back 
To  perish  in  the  storm  ? 

Nay,  John,  come  back. 
It  is  a  fearful  thing  to  see  you  weep. 
Forgive  my  cruel  words,  for  I  am  wild 
With  longing  for  my  boy.     You  are  the  tower 
That  shelters  me.     I  could  not  bear  to  have 
You  other  than  you  are, — firni,  rocky,  strong ; 
But  I  am  like  a  foolish  mother-bird 
Whose  nest  is  empty.     Bear  with  me  awhile 
Till  I  have  grown  acquainted  with  my  grief 


INSTEAD. 

And  learned  to  call  it  friend,  and  weep  with  it 
In  quiet  hours  alone. 

This  dreadful  hour 

Brings  us  old  age.     I  must  give  up  my  dreams 
And  you  your  high  ambitions.     Once  again 
We  must  be  lovers,  John,  and  so  make  smooth 
The  rocky  hill  of  life  whose  steep  descent 
We  must  go  down  together.     Kiss  me,  John. 


INSTEAD. 

As  the  soft,  twilight  shadows  fall, 
Old  faces  rise,  old  voices  call ; 
And  I,  as  they  entreat  me  home, 
Still  sadly  sigh, — I  cannot  come. 
Yet,  while  I  long 
With  you  to  be, 
Instead  of  me 
Receive  my  song. 

I  cannot  come, — yet  this  sweet  strain 
Wafts  my  rapt  spirit  home  again, 
And,  as  its  mellow  notes  you  hear, 
Oh,  think  I  sing  it  in  your  ear. 
And  while  I  long 
With  you  to  be, 
Instead  of  me 
Receive  my  song. 


SING    TO  ME,  DEAREST. 

Still  do  the  golden  days  go  by, 
The  flowers  fade,  the  roses  die ; 
And,  ere  the  last  shall  withered  be, 
Dear  friends  at  home  shall  welcome  me. 
But  while  I  long 
With  you  to  be, 
Instead  of  me 
M   Receive  my  song. 


SING    TO    ME,  DEAREST. 

MY  heart  it  is  heavy  with  bodings  of  sorrow  ; 

Mine  eyes  are  just  ready  to  brim  full  of  tears ; 
Dark,  dark  looks  to-day,  and  still  darker  to-morrow  ; 

Then  sing  to  me,  dearest,  and  scatter  my  fears. 

What  charm  like  thy  voice  with  its  sinking  and  swelling  ? 

It  rises  and  falls  like  the  wind  in  a  tree. 
Unbidden  by  thee  thy  heart's  deep  secrets  telling, 

And  breathing  thy  love  and  affection  for  me. 

Sing  to  me,  dearest.     What  care  I  for  sorrow 

While  thou  liest  here  with  thy  head  on  my  breast  ? 

Thy  sweet  voice  enchants  me,  and  veils  the  dark  morrow, 
Then  sing  to  me,  dearest,  the  song  I  love  best. 


JEALOUSY. 


JEALOUSY. 

LOVE  me  not  a  little ; 

I  will  share  with  none. 
Love  me,  if  you  love  me, 

As  earth  loves  the  sun, 

Unto  whom  she  ever 

Turns  a  happy  face, 
Glad  of  his  warm  kisses, 

Proud  of  his  embrace. 

As  the  dew-dank  roses       » 
For  the  daybreak  yearn, 

So,  when  I  am  absent, 
Long  for  my  return. 

As  glad  birds  at  sunrise 

Sing  unconsciously, 
Let  thy  heart  sing  softly 

When  I  come  to  thee. 

As  flowers  brighten  dewdrops, 
Dewdrops  sweeten  flowers, 

Let  our  hours  together 
Be  our  sweetest  hours. 

Love  me  not  a  little ; 

Give  me  all  or  none. 
If  you  love  me,  love  me 

As  earth  loves  the  sun. 


2  o  TIRED.— DR  O  UGHT. 


TIRED. 

O,  DEAR  mother  earth,  let  me  lie  on  thy  breast ! 
I  come,  a  tired  child,  to  thy  bosom  for  rest. 
Oh,  fondly  caress  me  !  speak  low  in  mine  ear  ! 
Undress  my  pure  soul  from  the  world's  tattered  wear ! 

O,  kiss  me,  my  mother  !  with  tenderest  airs  ; 
Wake  love  in  my  heart  with  small  motherly  cares; 
Wrap  thy  grasses  about  me,  forbid  me  to  rise 
With  a  look  full  of  love  from  thy  sweet  flower-eyes. 

O,  love  me,  my  mother  !  and  show  me  thy  love. 
My  soul  is  a  lonesome,  companionless  dove. 
The  past  hath  its  shadow,  the  future  its  shine, 
But  in  the  cold  present  thou  only  art  mine. 

I  am  tired — so  tired  !     Oh,  sing  me  to  sleep  ! 
Hush  thy  winds,  that  my  slumber  be  peaceful  and  deep. 
Wake  me  softly  with  tears  when  the  daylight  is  gone, 
But,  if  I  wake  not, — mother,  let  me  sleep  on. 


DROUGHT. 

OUR  thirsty  valley  looks  up  to  the  sky 

For  clouds  in  vain  ; 
Her  sun-singed  fields,  brown,  dead,  and  dusty  lie 

Parching  for  rain. 


BEFORE    WAKING.  21 

Her  throat  is  choked  with  dust ;  her  drinking  rills 

Are  dead  of  thirst. 
No  moisture  trickles  from  the  sweltering  hills ; 

The  land  seems  curst. 

The  red-breast's  wings  are  long  unwashed,  and  gruff 

Is  his  sweet  note  ; 
There's  scarcely  water  in  the  brook  enough 

To  wet  his  throat. 

O  God,  who  hast  the  oceans  to  command, 

Hear  us  complain  ! 
How  little,  dripping  from  Thy  hollowed  hand, 

Would  be  a  rain  ? 


BEFORE    WAKING. 

OH,  fold  the  hands  !     Let  my  tired  soul  confer 
A  little  longer  with  this  restful  dream. 
About  to  break  sleep's  padded  chain  I  seem  ; 

About,  yet  still  a  willing  prisoner. 

Thus  let  me  lie  and  feel  unconsciousness. 
Asleep  and  resting;  knowing  it  is  so, 
But  feeling  not  the  still  breath  come  and  go ; 

My  trance  unstirred  by  thought  and  laborless. 

Knowing  my  blessedness,  but  naught  beside ; 
Feeling  forgetfulness  of  pain  and  care ; 


22  MY  CREED. 

No  more  but  this ;  of  all  else  unaware  ; 
Willing  my  soul  should  ever  thus  abide. 

Long  let  my  spirit  this  soft  pleasure  keep. 
Break  thou  not  in  on  my  contented  calm 
While,  in  delicious  mazes  lost,  I  am 

But  wake  enough  to  know  I  am  asleep. 


MY    CREED. 

EXCEEDING  simple  is  my  creed  ; 

Faith  in  one  truth  is  all  I  need. 

I  rest  my  soul  in  perfect  trust 

That  One  is  infinite  and  just, 

And,  sure  that  He  all  things  ordained, 

Fret  not  to  have  His  ways  explained, 

Yet  feel,  as  darkly  now  I  read, 

My  knowledge  growing  with  my  need. 

I  seek  not,  hope  not,  to  secure 

Truth  in  one  crystal,  large  and  pure, 

But  grope  in  error's  sandy  sea 

For  scattered  grains  of  verity. 

The  voice  of  many  Priests  is  heard 
Proclaiming,  "  Here  is  God's  true  word  !" 
One  cries,  "  Behold  a  Book  !"  and  one, 
"  Behold  the  skies  !  peruse  the  sun  ! 
Read  earth's  clear  page_of  ancient  rock, 
Written  by  death,  and  earthquake  shock, 
And  graving  glacier  !"   while  a  third 
Cries,  "All  in  vain  you  seek  God's  word 


MY  CREED. 

With  eyes  of  flesh  !     Go  thou  apart, — 
His  oracle  is  thine  own  heart  !" 

I  hold  ye  all  for  prophets.     Read 
To  me  your  rocks,  I  will  take  heed  ; 
Read  me  your  starry  page,  declare 
The  truth  which  God  hath  written  there 
Read  me  your  book,  I  will  not  prize 
Its  pure  truths  less  than  rocks,  or  skies ; 
At  my  heart's  portal  I  mine  ear 
Will  place,  and  ponder  what  I  hear 
(But  with  good  heed,  for  who  can  tell 
What  priest  usurps  the  oracle  ?), 
Truth's  precious  ore  I  will  desire 
Reason  to  purge  with  her  keen  fire, 
And  what  her  stamp  approves  shall  be 
Alone  the  Word  of  God  to  me. 

Thus  seeking  knowledge  from  all  men, 
I  own  some  things  beyond  my  ken, 
And  whence  I  came,  or  whither  go, 
No  Prophet  tells,  no  Priest  doth  know. 
Whether  some  essence  of  this  "I" 
Live  on  unchanged  eternally  ; 
This  spark  of  life  one  being  warm, 
Or,  spread  through  beings  multiform, 
These  conscious  atoms  shall  but  pass 
Into  the  flowers,  the  trees,  the  grass, 
Even  as  this  warm  blood  shall  impart 
Its  color  to  the  rose's  heart, 
I  know  not.     But  my  faith  is  strong 
That  God  cannot  ordain  a  wrong, 
And,  for  those  things  I  cannot  see, 
I  trust  His  wisdom  fearlessly. 


24  SUNXISE. 


SUNRISE. 

OH,  draw  me  up,  thou  strong,  aspiring  sun  ! 

I  feel  the  tension  of  thy  ropes  of  light, 

And  thy  strong  hand  uplifting  me.     Farewell, 

0  earth,  my  mother !     To  thy  clammy  breast, 
Prest  close  with  hungry  and  devouring  love, 
Long  thou  hast  held  me,  now  thy  mighty  lord — 
My  father — claims  me,  and  my  ardent  soul 

Is  old  enough  to  go.     My  spirit  longs 
To  see  what  lies  above  the  mountain-tops. 

Yet  I  have  loved  thee,  mother  earth,  and  lain 
Happy  and  dreaming  in  thy  wide,  green  lap, 
Lulled  by  thy  cradle-songs  of  brooks  and  winds  ; 
Thy  breast  hath  fed  me,  and  thy  love  made  glad. 

1  bless  and  love  thee,  mother,  for  thy  love  ! 
Yet  it  is  fearful, — hungry-fierce  it  is, — 
For  thou  art  jealous  of  the  winking  stars 

That  bring  me  thought-flowers  from  the  world  of  space 

And  hide  me  from  them  with  thy  veil  of  clouds. 

I  may  not  dip  the  pinions  of  my  soul 

In  yon  blue  ether,  for  thy  watchful  eye 

Divines  my  thought,  and  thou,  with  swift  embrace, 

Dost  fetter  me  with  kisses,  crying,  "  Child, 

Mine  art  thou, — mine  !     Wander  not  far  away  ; 

Frolic  and  chase  my  butterflies  awhile, 

Then  come  to  me  for  rest,  and- 1  will  hide 

Thee,  slumbering,  in  my  bosom,  where  no  eye — 

Not  thy  strong  father's — shall  behold  thee  more." 


CORNPLANTEK.  2; 

O  SUN  !     There  is  a  passion  fierce  and  strong, 

Outblazing  love  as  thou  dost  earth's  cold  fires  ; 

It  burns  within  my  soul  when  I  look  up 

And  know  thou  art  my  father.     Though  the  earth 

Conceived  me  and  brought  forth,  thou  didst  give  life 

To  the  void  germ  within  her.     I  am  thine. 

Thy  fire  is  in  my  breast.     My  high-born  soul 

Chafes  at  the  mother's  tether.     It  was  hers 

To  suckle  my  blind  infancy,  'tis  thine 

To  teach  my  youth  in  things  beyond  her  ken. 

Arise,  strong  father!     Luminously  smile, 

And  burn  away  earth's  sulky  fogs  and  damps. 

Leave  her  my  swaddling-clothes  to  kiss  and  keep 

In  her  cold  bosom,  wet  with  rainy  tears, 

But  lift  my  spirit  on  thy  radiant  wing, 

And,  in  the  vast  star-multitudes  of  space, 

Teach  me  male  wisdom,  and  sublimer  things 

Than  earth  could  hear  unquaked.     Fill  me  with  light 

From  quenchless  fountains.     Teach  me  too  to  shine. 


CORNPLANTER. 

(THE  LAST  WAR-CHIEF  OF  THE  SENEGAS.) 

THE  greatest  hero  is  not  he  whose  trump 

Is  loudest  blown  by  fame ; 
As  deep  woods  hide  the  fallen  Tree-king's  stump, 

Oblivion  hides  the  name 
3 


26  CORNPLANTRR. 

Of  many  a  brave  truth  miner,  who  hath  wrought 

Darkling,  and  made  no  stir. 
Men  wear  the  precious  jewels  of  his  thought, 

And  ask  not  whose  they  were. 

This  red  man's  life  was  luminous  and  bright 

In  dark  obscurity, 
Like  a  grand  forest  fire,  whose  splendid  light 

Only  brute  creatures  see. 

Fame's  bloody  war-crown  bravely  he  declined. 

In  sight  of  glory's  throne 
The  wild  heart  bowed  to  the  heroic  mind, 

And  dared  to  die  unknown. 

Hate's  fire  consumed  his  heart ;  oppression  fanned 

And  kept  its  flame  alive. 
The  war-whoop  trembled  on  his  lip,  his  hand 

Grasped  the  keen  scalping-knife; 

But  ever  present  with  him  day  and  night 

Was  wisdom's  marble  face  : 
"  Be  patient  and  plant  corn,"  she  said,  "  or  light 

The  death-fire  of  your  race." 

He  lit  the  peace-pipe,  though  for  blood  athirst, 

And  saw,  like  smoke  in  air, 
His  glory  fade.     The  once  loved  chief  was  curst 

By  Turtle,  Wolf,  and  Bear. 

Wise  lookers  back,  who  see  but  their  own  trail, 

Despise  the  eagle's  sight : 
"See,"  cried  the  braves,  "the  coward's  cheek  is  pale 

The  war-chiefs  heart  is  white." 


SNOW.  2 

He  heard,  and  on  their  pigmy  heads  looked  down, — 

A  pine-tree  midst  the  corn  ; — 
With  their  rash  blood  he  might  have  bought  renown, 

And  worship  had,  for  scorn  ; 

But,  strangling  his  own  heart,  that  fiercely  cried, 

He  sought  his  people's  good, 
And  taught  them  how  to  drift  along  the  tide 

Which  might  not  be  withstood. 

Peaceful  and  calm,  only  his  flashing  eye 

Told  what  sublime  restraint 
Choked  down  a  longing,  savage-wild,  to  die 

A  warrior  in  war-paint. 

O,  grand  old  savage  !  not  thy  clan  alone 

May  count  thy  life  for  gain  ; 
Through  thy  spent  strength  the  world  is  stronger  grown 

Thy  years  were  not  in  vain. 

Full  many  a  hero,  dying  for  a  name, 

Hath  missed  of  his  renown  ; 
Haply  to  thee,  that  turned  thy  back  on  fame, 

She  yet  may  bring  a  crown. 


SNOW. 

IN  the  sky  a  great  bird  hovers, 
With  wide  wings  o'er  vale  and  hill. 
Her  white  breast  she  plucks,  and  shakes 
Downward  flocks  of  feathery  flakes, 


28  POET  AND   LILY. 

Till  the  cold,  damp  earth  she  covers, 
And  her  own  bare  breast  is  chill. 
Lapt  in  down  the  earth  doth  lie, — 
Let  the  cloud  bird  freeze  and  die. 

O'er  the  cold  world,  in  his  tower, 
Lone  the  poet  sits  and  sings: 
All  the  world,  his  song  to  hear, 
Pauses  rapt  with  drinking  ear. 
Ah,  sweet  harp  !  for  thy  rare  power 
The  singer's  heart  hath  given  its  strings. 
Sweet  his  music,  but  not  long  : 
He  sings  his  life  into  his  song. 


POET    AND   LILY. 

A  POET  gazed  with  longing  eyes 

Into  a  rich  man's  paradise, — 

A  bower  of  bloom  where  fountains  danced, 

And  rare  birds  sang  and  sunbeams  glanced. 

In  fountain  dew  and  sunbeam  showers 

Grew  tropic  plants  and  warm-breathed  flowers, 

Which,  in  that  finely-tempered  air, 

Forgot  they  were  not  native  there. 

Set  in  the  midst — a  virgin  queen — 
A  wondrous  lily  stood  se'rene. 
Pure  white,  on  every  flower's  head 
She  seemed  its  lovely  hues  to  shed, 


POET  AND   LILY. 

As  from  the  milk-white  moon  there  falls 
A  rainbow  'gainst  heaven's  misty  walls. 

The  poet  sighed  :   "  O  lily  fair ! 

I  need  thee  in  my  garret  bare. 

How  quickly  would  my  fortunes  mend 

Had  I  but  thee  to  watch  and  tend  ! 

Thy  pure  white  face  would  be  to  me 

A  well-spring  of  sweet  poesie  ; 

Thy  beauty  would  inspire  my  string 

That  men  should  pause  to  hear  me  sing, 

And,  seeing  thee,  shed  happy  tears, 

Stung  with  delight  through  eyes  and  ears. 

No  want,  no  care  to  me  were  known, 

For,  having  eyes  for  thee  alone, 

Desire  should  die,  all  love  grow  cool 

Save  for  my  one  thing  beautiful. 

I  consecrate  my  life  to  thee ; 

Come,  queen  of  flowers,  and  dwell  with  me  !" 

Was  it  the  breeze  moved  through  the  bed  ? 
Or  did  the  lily  lift  her  head  ? 
Was  it  the  breeze  the  poet  heard 
Low  whispering  like  a  dreaming  bird  ? 
Or  did  the  lily  languid,  slow, 
Thus  answer?  "  Poet,  be  it  so, — 
I  could  bring  joy  to  you,  yet  I 
In  your  dull  cage  would  droop  and  die. 
On  love-songs  lilies  cannot  live, 
And  you  have  nothing  else  to  give." 
3* 


29 


HEINE. 


Oh,  lily  of  my  love  !   in  gloom 
I  sit  and  long  for  thy  perfume, 
Yet  dare  not  sue  to  thee,  sweet  flower, 
Till  I  can  give  thee  bower  for  bower. 


HEINE. 

(BUCK    DER   LIEDER.) 

PAIN  brings  us  more  than  pleasure  ; 

Tears  comfort  more  than  wine  ; 
Griefs  hands  are  full  of  treasure, 

And  sorrow  is  divine. 

The  nightingale  that's  making 
Night  happy  with  his  strain, 

His  little  heart  is  breaking  : 
He  sings  to  still  its  pain. 

Better  than  laughing  folly, 
Gay  songs  and  wassail  ale, 

Thy  tuneful  melancholy, 
O  poet  nightingale ! 

I  have  no  ear  for  gladness 

When  thou,  with  song,  dost  make 
Such  rapture  out  of  sadness — 

Such  transport  of  heart-break. 


CHURCH-BELLS. 


CHURCH-BELLS. 

CALL  not,  sweet  church-bells,  from  the  town  ! 

My  breezy  hill  I  will  not  leave, 
Nor  to  your  gothic  caves  come  down. 

Ye  are  but  sirens  that  deceive. 

• 

Your  wizard  master  well  I  know. 

How  often,  by  his  baleful  spells, 
Into  a  creature  vile  and  low 

Have  I  been  changed,  O  siren  bells ! 

Ah  me  !  how  totally  depraved, — 

Wickedly  marring  God's  good  plan  ! — 

How  justly  damned,  how  hardly  saved, 
The  wretch  his  black  art  makes  of  man  ! 

A  purer  spell  enchants  me  here 
And  lifts  my  spirit  from  the  dust. 

The  lusty  growth  of  the  young  year 
Brings  nobler  hope  and  grander  trust. 

My  cousins  of  the  earth  and  air — 
Contented  trees  and  cheerful  birds — 

With  me  their  simple  wisdom  share, 

And  preach  rare  sermons  without  words. 

Sir  Woodpecker,  true  knight  and  good, 
Guards  from  small  foes  the  helpful  tree 

That  holds  his  mate  and  her  young  brood 
High  hid  in  green  security. 


MOON  RISE. 

The  flowers  are  quickened  by  the  breast 
Of  the  rude  robber  honey-bee ; 

The  bird  that  mourns  an  empty  nest 
Sings  sorrow  into  ecstasy. 

Oh  green  and  living  things  of  earth  ! 

Oh  living,  loving  things  of  air  ! 
My  soul  is  but  a  later  birth ; 

One  life,  one  heritage  we  share. 

The  faith  of  trees,  so  calm  and  strong, 
Hath  in  my  soul  its  counterpart ; 

The  passion  of  the  rapt  bird's  song 
Wakes  a  wild  echo  in  my  heart. 

Who  shall  declare  us  great  and  small, 
Or  judge  our  lives  for  good  or  ill  ? 

One  thought  of  God  hath  made  us  all ; 
All  life  is  but  His  moving  will. 


M  O  O  N  R  I  S  E. 


As  from  our  hill-top  we  look  west, 

One  blush  of  cloudlet  lies  amid  cloud-snows, 
Where  Day,  on  pensive  Evening's  peaceful  breast, 

Hath  dropped  a  parting  rose. 


THE    WALK. 

II. 
Look  downward,  sweetheart ;  see  how  still, 

How  breathless  now  the  dusky  valley  seems  ! 
As  if  it  caught,  from  yonder  brooky  hill, 

The  voice  of  singing  streams. 

in. 
Earth  fades  apace,  but,  ere  'tis  lost, 

A  warrior  star  burns  through  the  sky,  and  soon 
Around  his  standard  troops  a  glittering  host 

To  overawe  the  moon. 

IV. 

See  where,  above  the  hill,  serene, 

White  as  new  snow,  she  tranquilly  appears. 

The  haughty  stars  grow  meek  before  their  queen 
And  droop  their  golden  spears. 

v. 
So,  even  at  their  fiery  noon, 

Ambition's  stars,  that  light  my  life's  wild  skies, 
Do  worship  and  fall  down,  when,  like  the  moon, 

Thy  image  there  doth  rise. 


35 


THE    WALK. 

I  STROLLED  abroad  to  breathe  the  freshened  air. 
For  months  a  frigid  barrier  had  pent  up 
Within  close  limits  my  unquiet  soul, 
And,  when  the  early  spring  began  to  smile, 


34 


THE    WALK. 


How  gladly  did  I  hail  her  genial  warmth, 
Her  balmy  breath,  and  melody  of  sounds  ! 
I  hailed  her  as  my  sweet  deliverer 
From  winter's  gloomy  prison,  and  gave  up 
My  heart  to  fullest  blissfulness  and  peace. 

'Twas  earliest  spring;  the  pallid  snow-drifts  clung 

Tenaciously,  as  if  for  life,  around 

The  brown  and  barren  summits  of  the  hills. 

There  was  no  green  upon  the  earth  as  yet, 

No  single  spear  of  grass,  no  starting  leaf; 

But  from  the  heavens  the  sun  sent  down  his  beams 

With  promises  of  life,  and  seemed  to  say, 

"A  little,  and  before  my  showers  of  heat 

Yonder  white  snow  shall  melt  and  slink  away ; 

My  rays  shall  penetrate  the  dormant  sod 

And  wake  its  latent  germs  from  their  long  sleep; 

The  earth  shall  soon  be  carpeted  with  green ; 

The  forest  hung  with  leafy  draperies; 

And  in  sequestered  nooks  and  sylvan  dells 

The  violet  shall  ope  its  modest  eye, 

And  drink  in  light  and  life  with  thankfulness." 

Sparkling  like  silver  in  the  sun's  warm  beams 
The  joyful  river  danced  and  tumbled  on 
Drinking  up  sunlight,  as  if  long  athirst. 
Its  waves  at  play,  like  children  after  school, 
Chasing  each  other  with  low,  gurgling  laugh, 
And  leaping  up  to  catch  the  straggling  beams 
Of  mellow  sunlight  as  they  hurried  by ; 
Tossing  themselves  against  the~-shaded  bank 
To  tell  it  they  were  warm,  and  it  was  spring. 


THE    WALK.  35 

With  gladdened  heart  I  climbed  the  southern  slope 
Of  the  great  hill,  and,  when  far  up  its  side, 
I  sat  me  down  upon  a  massive  stone 
To  view  the  scene  below. 

A  pleasant  plain 

Lay  at  my  feet,  whereon  the  village  stood, 
A  cluster  of  white  cottages  and  spires ; 
Beyond,  the  hills  rose  brown  and  sombre,  capped 
And  patched  along  their  sides  with  spots  of  snow; 
Soft  silver  clouds  sailed  o'er  the  azure  sky, 
And  through  the  middle  of  the  level  plain 
The  river  rolled  rejoicingly  along. 
Oh  !  it  was  sweet  to  feel  the  gentle  Spring 
Balmily  breathing  'gainst  my  cheek  once  more ; 
To  hear  the  robin,  from  a  leafless  bough, 
Chirp  his  delight  at  her  desired  return  ; 
And  thus  to  bask  me  in  the  warming  sun, 
And  listen  to  the  varied  sounds  that  burst, 
In  heaven-tuned  concord,  from  the  happy  heart 
Of  Nature,  that  had  lain  so  long  asleep. 

Then  long  I  sat,  and  yielded  up  my  soul 

Unto  the  softening  influence  of  the  time; 

And  dreamed  I  saw  old  Winter,  with  his  locks 

Of  silver  fluttering  in  the  buoyant  air, 

Shake  hands  with  blooming  Spring,  and  place  his  crown 

Of  sovereignty  upon  her  youthful  brow ; 

Then,  turning  sadly  from  his  empire  lost, 

Wend  o'er  the  northern  hills  his  lingering  way 

And  vanish  in  a  bank  of  fleecy  clouds. 

And  then  I  turned  with  thankful  heart  to  HIM 
Whose  love  hath  fashioned  this  delightful  globe, 


36  WHY? 


Warmed  it,  and  lighted  it  with  yonder  sun, 
Piled  those  white  clouds  against  the  blue  expanse, 
And  sent'the  seasons  on  their  ceaseless  round, 
To  make  His  children  an  abiding-place. 


WHY? 
(SUGGESTED  BY  THE  EARLY  DEATH  OF  E.  F.  M.) 

O  PREACHER  !  search  your  books  and  give 

To  our  sad  hearts  a  reason  why. 
Why  should  the  old  and  wretched  live  ? 

Why  must  the  young  and  happy  die? 

The  hawk  that  kills  but  never  sings, 
By  murder  waxes  bold  and  strong, 

Feeding  the  vigor  of  his  wings 

On  many  a  'fenceless  bird  of  song. 

The  world  is  overfull  of  drones, 
And  brutes  shaped  like  humanity ; 

The  air  is  sick  with  wretches'  groans  ; 
But  these,  O  death  !  are  naught  to  thee. 

But  she,  whose  days  were  happy ;  she, 
Whose  soul,  like  some  woods-waterfall, 

Poured  out  its  joyous  music  free 
And  made  life  sweeter  for  us  all ; 


WHY?  37 

She,  whose  sublime  humility 

Taught  us  how  great  are  common  things ; 
Whose  life  was  like  a  symphony 

Low  sung  by  tender  flutes  and  strings, — 

She  is  thy  victim.     Wretchedness 

Courts  death  and  lives,  but  she  must  die. 

O  preacher  !  close  your  books  ;  confess 
You  do  not  know  the  reason  why. 

Stars  fill  all  space  as  thick  as  sands 

Blown  round  by  gusts  that  herald  rain, 

And  all  our  race  hath  room  and  lands 
Upon  a  single  whirling  grain. 

How  shall  mites  measure  miles  ?  and  we 

.Are  mites  to  nature's  miles.     What  rod 
Have  we  to  scale  eternity, 

Or  measure  the  designs  of  God  ? 

Mysterious  Source  of  Life,  divine  ! 

How  should  Thy  ways  to  us  be  known  ? 
The  clue  to  life  and  death  is  Thine. 

Thou  knowest  why,  and  Thou  alone. 


38  MOONLIGHT. 

MOONLIGHT. 

(A    REVERIE.) 

OVER  the  hills  the  moonlight  steals, 
And  floods  the  level  meadows; 

The  river,  drowned  in  light,  reveals 
A  world  of  sleeping  shadows. 

Smoothed  are  its  ripples,  hushed  the  sighs 
With  which  all  day  'tis  teeming; 

Beneath  the  misty,  moonlit  skies 
It  lies  as  if  a-dreaming — 

Dreaming  of  softly  slipping  on 

Through  woodlands  cool  and  stilly ; 

Of  quarrelling  with  rock  and  stone; 
Of  kissing  the  sweet  lily; 

Of  brattling  shallows,  gay  cascades, 
Clear  crystal  springs  and  fountains, 

And  birds  that  charm  in  quiet  shades 
Its  birthplace  in  the  mountains. 

And,  as  I  gaze  out  on  the  night, 
My  thoughts,  with  sweet  delaying, 

By  devious  paths  of  shade  and  light 
Through  memory's  groves  are  straying. 

Dim  ghosts  of  buried  yesterdays, 

Crowned  with  hope's  withered  flowers, 


MOONLIGHT. 

Lead  up  and  down  these  silent  ways 
Their  spectral  trains  of  hours. 

Dead  loves  and  griefs,  that  long  have  lain 
Beneath  the  past's  deep  ocean, 

Rise — live — and  fill  my  soul  again 
With  passionate  emotion. 

My  heart  cries  out, — dull,  heavy  pain 

Lies  leaden  on  its  pulses, 
E'en  while  its  inmost  depths  a  strain 

Of  blissful  notes  convulses. 

Ah  !  sweet  indeed  it  is  to  me 

To  sit  thus  idly  musing; 
Letting  fond  Fancy  wander  free 
-  By  paths  of  her  own  choosing. 

And  though  midst  saddest  scenes  she  roam, 

And  o'er  my  senses  creeping 
I  feel  a  melancholy  come, 

And  catch  myself  a-weeping, 

I  feel  a  blissfulness  so  rare, 

So  pure,  unworldly,  holy, 
I  love  to  breathe  the  saddened  air 

Of  dreamy  melancholy. 

And,  as  the  moonbeams  softly  sleep 

On  hill  and  dale  and  river, 
I  love  the  dream  that  makes  me  weep, 

And  covet  it  forever. 


39 


L  OCUST-BL  OSSOMS. 


LOCUST-BLOSSOMS. 

SWEET  scents  are  mingled  with  the  air 
That  comes  to  fan  my  cheek  to-night ; 

A  perfume  subtle,  honeyed,  rare, 
That  fills  me  with  a  calm  delight, 

As  down  the  dim,  twilighted  street 

I  loiter,  dreaming  as  I  go, 
Plucking  the  locust  blossoms  sweet 

That  droop  in  modest  grace  full  low. 

O  memory  !  with  gentle  hand 

Opening  afresh  my  half-healed  wound  ; 
O  locust-trees  !     I  see  her  stand, 

With  your  white,  creamy  clusters  crowned, 

Within  the  doorway  clambered  o'er 
By  spice-breathed  roses  red  and  white, 

While  fast  from  heaven  night's  angels  pour 
The  moon  of  harvest's  mellow  light. 

A  picture  sweetly  set  in  flowers, 
And  sweet  itself  beyond  compare. 

'Tis  a  vain  thing  to  weep  for  hours 
And  loves  long  vanished  into  air; 

But  back  upon  my  soul  again, 

Borne  on  this  perfume-laden  breeze, 

Old  memories  fall  like  autumn  rain, 
And  drown  me  in  sweet  miseries. 


FAITH. 

Oh,  your  strange  perfume  pains  with  sweet 
Yet,  locust-trees,  I  love  the  pain, 

And,  sitting  at  your  gnarled  feet, 
I  call  my  dead  past  back  again. 

Its  loves,  its  hates,  its  hopes,  its  fears, 
Its  wild  commotion,  peaceful  rest, — 

Some  love  has  hallowed  e'en  its  tears, 
And  rendered  every  sorrow  blest. 


FAITH. 

SOME  truths,  which  we  hold  dear  as  life, 
We  only  know  by  faith  ;  and  so 
I  know,  but  know  not  how  I  know, 

That,  one  day,  you  will  be  my  wife. 

You  turn  your  eyes  away  in  vain. 

Those  eyes,  that  read  my  inmost  soul, 
The  might  of  love  shall  yet  control, 

And  make  to  beam  .on  me  again. 

Shrined  in  my  heart  your  image  stands, 

Not  draped  as  lost, — a  memory — 

But  lonely  beautiful,  as  she 
That  brings  my  future  in  her  hands. 

Bright  Hope  to  me  her  songs  doth  sing, 

And  Faith's  wide  eyes  speak  more  than  words. 
In  faith  I  wait,  as  snow-caught  birds 

Wait  the  sure  coming  of  the  spring. 
4* 


THE   SCHOOL-HOUSE. 


THE    SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

YES,  John,  our  district  well  may  brag 
On  this  new  school-house.     I  brag  too. 

I'm  for  improvement.     I  don't  lag 

Behind  when  things  want  putting  through. 

But  that  old,  battered,  wooden  shell 
That  stood  on  this  spot  fifty  year, — 

I'd  learned  to  know  its  face  so  well 

That  somehow John,  it's  mighty  queer, 

But  when  you  pulled  the  old  house  down, — 
The  time  this  new  one  was  begun, — 

I  had  to  go  to  lower  town  : 
I  couldn't  stand  to  see  it  done. 

For  there  I  studied  A,  B,  C, 

Got  licked,  and  learned,  by  hook  and  crook, 
To  read  about  the  apple-tree 

In  Webster's  old  blue  spelling-book. 

And,  where  that  church  stands,  many  a  morn 
(Twas  a  field  then) — a  love-sick  fool — 

I  stood  behind  a  shock  of  corn 

To  see  the  school-ma'am  come  to  school. 

Her  cheeks,  as  she  the  cornfield  crost, 
Were  redder  than  the  scrub-oak  leaves  : 

Her  eyes  were  brighter  than  the  frost 
That  sparkled  on  the  tasselled  sheaves. 


THE   SCHOOL-HOUSE. 


43 


And  in  among  the  noisy  throng 

Of  barefoot  youngsters  she  would  go, — 

And,  as  I  watched  her,  I  allowed 
It  wasn't  strange  they  loved  her  so. 

But  when,  just  at  the  school-house  door, 
Each  urchin  claimed  his  kiss,  ah  !  then 

I  longed  to  go  barefoot  once  more, 
And  read  the  spelling-book  again. 

Sweet  Lucy  !     How  it  came  to  pass 

I  can't  explain, — but,  any  way, 
I  might  as  well  have  joined  a  class, 

For  I  hung  round  there  half  the  day. 

At  noon  I'd  take  her  nuts,  a  pear, 
Or  apples, — my  best  grafted  fruit, — 

To  trade  for  smiles;  she  traded  fair, 
And  gave  me  many  thanks  to  boot. 

And  sometimes,  after  study  hours, 

When  Lucy  led  her  merry  throng 
Into  the  woods  for  late  wild-flowers 

And  autumn  leaves,  I'd  go  along. 

She  had  some  dozen  boys,  half  grown, 

That  loved  her  well.    They  shamed  me,  though, 

For  I  loved  too,  and  I  alone 
Had  not  the  pluck  to  tell  her  so. 

"  You  happy  boys  !"  I  thought,  "  you  swap 
Wild-flowers  for  kisses  from  her  lips : 

I'd  harvest  the  whole  flower  crop 
To  kiss  her  very  finger-tips." 


44  THE   SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

But  winter  came,  and  when  the  ground 
And  the  big  lulls  with  snow  were  white, 

I'd  hitch  my  colt  up  and  go  round 

To  take  her  home  from  school  at  night. 

One  frosty  evening,  riding  slow 

Through  Johnson's  woods,  her  rosy  cheek 

Lay  close  to  mine  and  thrilled  me  so 
That  I  determined  I  would  speak. 

"  Lucy  !"  I  said,  "  dear  Lucy  !"— Here 
Her  eyes  met  mine  and  flustered  me. 

As  awkward  as  a  yearling  steer 

I  backed  and  tried  again.     "  You  see — 

"  I  want  to  ask  you" —  a  big  lump 

Came  in  my  throat — "  Whoa,  Bill,  you  fool  ! 

That's  nothing  but  a  hemlock  stump  ! — 
If — if  you  love — the  boys  in  school." 

'Twant  what  I  meant;  but,  any  way, 
She  dropped  her  eyes,  and  I  could  see 

She  guessed  what  I  had  tried  to  say. 

She  said,  "  Of  course.     They  all  love  me." 

Boldened  by  this,  her  hand  I  prest, 
And  cried,  "  Dear  Lucy,  couldn't  you 

Love  me  a  little  with  the  rest  ? 

For  I — I  love  the  school-ma'am  too." 

See,  yonder  comes  my  school-ma'am  wife  ; 

Her  cheeks  are  fresh  and  rosy  yet ; 
And,  for  our  happy  married  life, 

We  bless  this  spot  where  first  we  met. 


VOICES   OF   THE   FOREST. 


VOICES   OF    THE    FOREST. 

IN  the  dim  forest  alone  I  wandered  one  day  in   the 

autumn, 
Late  in  the  chill  afternoon  as  the  sun  slowly  sank  to 

the  westward. 
Silently,  wrapt  in  strange  fancies,  beneath   the  dark 

plumes  of  the  hemlocks, 
Listening  the  songs  of  the  birds  and  their  chaffering, 

queer  conversation, 
As  they  rustled  among  the  dark  boughs  in  the  hush  of 

the  twilighted  forest, 
I  walked  ankle-deep  in  crisp  leaves:    walked  on,  all 

-unconscious  of  whither, 
Till,  suddenly,  from  a  low  hill- top,  I  saw  the  last  glories 

of  sunset, — 
The  pomp  of  the  king  of  the  day,  departing  in  splendor 

thrice  regal. 
Slowly  the  huge  golden  gates  of  the  west  were  swung 

widely  asunder; 
Slowly  the  song  of  the  birds  sank  away  in  low,  tremulous 

quavers ; 
Burst  the  great  heart  of  the  breeze  in  one  sad  sob  of 

sorrow,  then,  silent, 

Drooping,  and  motionless  standing,  the  tall  pines  la 
mented  their  lover. 
Soon,  as  in  transport  I  stood,  I  heard  a  faint  rustle  of 

pinions, 
Felt  a  slight  stir,  as  of  wings,  and  the  awe  of  a  wonderful 

Presence. 


46  VOICES   OF  THE  FOREST. 

Straightway  a   voice  like  a  flute,  with   musical,  low 

modulations, 
Inwardly  borne  to  my  soul,  sang  sweetly  unto  it  in  this 

wise : 

Poet  dumb  and  deaf  and  blind, 
I  will  be  thy  mother  kind  ; 
I  will  make  thee  hear  and  see 
Nature's  wondrous  mystery. 
Till  thy  heart  shall  me  forsake 
It  shall  know  the  sweetest  ache ; 
Till  vain  noises  fill  thine  ear 
Thou  shalt  all  my  songsters  hear  ; 
Till  gilt  baubles  catch  thine  eye 
Thou  shalt  all  my  secrets  spy ; 
I  will  make  thy  mute  lips  sing 
Like  the  happy  birds  in  spring. 

Then  once  again  a  soft  sound  like  the  waving  of  wind- 
shaken  branches, — 
Vanished  the  Presence  away, — and  the  breeze  rushed 

again  through  the  tree-tops, 
Kissed  the  disconsolate  pines  that  lifted  their  heads  to 

receive  him, 
Clasped  in  his  arms  the  dark  hemlocks,  and  tilted  their 

plumes  on  his  fingers. 
Each  several  tree  had  a  language, — the  breeze  told  my 

heart  his  sweet  story  ; 
The  brook  sang  a  song  of  her  own  to  the  rocks  as  she 

brabbled  beneath  them ; 
In  empty  nests  sat  mother-birds,  and  mournfully  chirped 

of  their  nestlings 
Grown  up  and  gone  their  own  ways.     The  sky  was  fast 

paling  to  grayness, 


VOICES   OF   THE  FOREST. 


47 


But  still  in  the  west  lived  a  flush,  as  if  in  the  train  of 

the  day  king 

Some  lagging  retainers  remained  to  close  up  the  gate 
way  behind  him. 

I  stopped  by  the  trunk  of  an  oak, — a  stalwart  and 

rough-coated  giant, — 
Tree-king  of  all  the  great  forest,  and  proud  of  his 

strength  and  his  kingship. 
Eagerly  waving  his  arms,  as  if  to  embrace  the  wild 

north  wind, 
Thus,  as  I  fancied,  he  sang  to  the  north  his  proud  song 

of  defiance : 

THE   ROYAL   OAK. 

Blow,  blow  your  worst,  O  winter  wind  ! 

Come,  pinching  frost  and  freezing  cold  ! 
Come,  try  my  strength,  and  you  shall  find 

I  am  not  weak,  though  I  am  old. 
I  laugh  at  your  howling,  ha !  ha  !  ha  ! 

I  laugh  at  the  cold  and  threatening  sky; 
I  rail  at  the  winter,  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

For  a  royal  oak  am  I. 

Come,  wrestle  with  me,  O  boasting  storm  ! 

I  do  not  fear  your  ice  and  snow ; 
'Twill  make  me  a  coat  to  keep  me  warm, 

And  I  love  you  the  best  when  wildest  you  blow. 
I  laugh  at  your  boasting,  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Come,  strong  north  wind,  my  old  arms  try ; 
I  love  the  wild  winter,  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

For  a  royal  oak  am  I. 


48  VOICES   OF   THE   FOREST. 

Poor,  puny  aspen  !  I  pity  you  : 

You  will  shiver  and  shrink  when  the  wild  winds  come. 
Young  spruce  will  be  covered  with  cold  snow,  too, 

And  stand  like  a  statue,  frozen  dumb. 
But  I  laugh  at  the  winter,  ha !  ha !  ha  ! 

An  hundred  such  I  have  seen  go  by : 
I  fear  not  his  bluster,  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

For  a  royal  oak  am  I. 

Close  by  the  monarch   there  stood  another  oak,  old 

and  decaying, — 
Father,  perhaps,  of  the  king  who  so  proudly  defied  the 

hard  weather. 
Painfully  swayed  by  the  wind,  his  branches  creaked 

sharply  in  moving, 
For  age  had  long  stolen  his  strength, — his  pride  was 

forgotten  in  sorrow  : 
Hearing  this  song  of  defiance,  he  sighed,  drooped  still 

lower  his  branches, 
And  chanted  a  strain  of  foreboding  that  fell  on  my 

ear  like  a  death-song 
Sung  by  a  silver-haired  chief,  with  the  bright  eyes  of 

Pauguk  upon  him. 

THE    OLD    OAK. 

The  winter  comes  apace  ;  ah,  me  ! 

What  shall  I  do,  what  shall  I  do? 
Cold  snow  will  pile  against  my  knee, — 

I  shall  be  frozen  through  and  through  ; 
The  ruffian  wind  wiO-  buffet  me  ; 

The  cruel  hail  will  pelt  me,  too, 

What  shall  I  do,  what  shall  I  do? 


VOICES   OF  THE  FOREST.  49 

Once  I  could  rail  at  storms, — but  now, — 

I  am  so  old,  I  am  so  old, 
I  cannot  bare  my  withered  brow 

And  laugh  at  hail  and  snow  and  cold. 
Will  not  the  winter  pity  me 

When  all  my  years  he  shall  be  told  ? 

I  am  so  old,  I  am  so  old  ! 

He  has  no  pity  well  I  wist, 

And  I  have  taunted  him  of  yore  ; 

He'll  gripe  me  in  his  giant  fist 

And  rack  my  weary  limbs  full  sore ; 

When  spring  shall  come  I  shall  be  missed, 
For  I,  when  spring  her  rains  shall  pour, 
Shall  be  no  more,  shall  be  no  more. 

Tumbling  o'er  mossy  rocks,  and  sliding  o'er  gravelly 

reaches, 
Plunging  from  shade  into  light,   and  slipping    from 

sunlight  to  shadow, 
Laughingly  sang  the  gay  brook, — the  wayward  coquette 

of  the  forest. 

THE    BROOK. 

I  am  a  wild,  free  nursling  of  the  forest  wild  and  free, 
I  sing  from  morn  to  even  in  a  happy,  blithesome  key ; 
I  sing  from  morn  to  even,  and  from  even  unto  morn, 
And  keep  tryst  with  wooing  starlets  ere  the  crescent 
moon  is  born. 

My  banks  love  well  to  listen  as  I  babble  and  I  sing ; 
I  charm  the  dust-winged  butterflies  above  me  as  they 
swing; 

5 


50  VOICES   OF   THE  FOREST. 

I  flirt  with  love-lorn  willow-trees,  that  droop  their  heads 

full  low 
To  catch  my  farewell  murmur  as  so  gayly  on  I  flow. 

I  tumble  over  mossy  rocks,  I  woo  the  flowers  with 
kisses ; 

I  spatter  the  great  booby  trees ;  I  dash  down  preci 
pices. 

I  linger  long  in  sunny  spots  and  lose  myself  in  dream 
ing; 

I  shoot  into  the  laurel  shade  and  don  a  careless  seem 
ing  ; 

Slowly  I  slide  o'er  sandy  beds,  'twixt  stretching  fields 

and  meadows ; 
Quickly  I  glance  o'er  pebbly  ways  to  reach  the  wooing 

shadows ; 

Where'er  I  go,  whate'er  I  do,  I  heed  no  coming  trouble  ; 
Enough  for  me  I  now  can  sing,  and  murmur,  flirt,  and 

bubble. 

Deep  in  a  nook  of  the  woods,  half  hidden  in  shadows 

of  twilight, 
Stood,  with   her  lithe  branches  drooping,  a  leafless, 

disconsolate  rosebush. 
Strewing  the  earth  at  her  feet  lay  all  that  was  left  of 

the  roses 
Born  to  her  husband,  the  sun,  in  the  happy  young  days 

of  the  summer. 
Ever  her  branches  were  swayed  by  a  zephyr  that  sought 

to  console  her ; 
Ever  she  groped  with  blind  hands,  as  if  seeking  to 

touch  her  dead  children ; 


VOICES   OF  THE  FOREST.  5! 

Heedless  of  comforting  airs,  and  moaning  in  piteous 

cadence, 
She  sang  a  sad  dirge  for  her  dead,  that  made  my  heart 

ache  as  I  listened. 

THE   ROSEBUSH. 

My  roses  fair  are  dead,  all  dead ; 

Here,  scattered  on  the  earth  they  lie : 
My  wealth  is  gone,  my  glory  fled, — 

Left  bare  and  barren  let  me  die. 

How  joyfully,  in  early  spring, 

When  first  the  singing  birds  were  here, 

I  felt  my  pulses  quickening,  . 

And  saw  the  tender  buds  appear  ! 

How  blissfully,  when  first  'gan  peep 
Faint  blushes  from  the  buds'  embrace, 

I  rocked  them  in  my  arms  asleep, 
With  sunlight  smiling  in  my  face  ! 

How  proud  was  I  when  they  were  grown  ! 

Ah,  those  delicious  summer  days  ! 
The  south  wind  kissed  them  one  by  one, 

•And  they  blushed  redder  at  his  praise. 

Their  gentle  fame  spread  far  and  wide, 
That  birds  and  breezes  came  to  woo 

In  amorous  crowds  at  eventide, 
And  sang  and  whispered  in  the  dew. 

At  last,  e'en  from  the  frigid  zone 

(My  daughters'  fame  had  spread  so  far), 


52  VOICES   OF  THE  FOREST. 

An  unknown  suitor  came  alone, 
At  night,  beneath  the  polar  star. 

And  he  was  clad  in  silver  sheen, 
All  in  a  glittering  coat  of  mail. 

My  daughters  naught  so  fair  had  seen, 
And  listened,  wondering,  to  his  tale. 

Alas,  those  dazzling  bride-robes  bright ! 

Alas,  for  joys  that  will  not  stay  ! 
Who  kissed  their  happy  leaves  at  night, 

With  morning  sunlight  stole  away. 

9        And  saucy  sunbeams  laughed  in  scorn, 

Till  hung  my  daughters'  heads  with  shame : 
Stripped  of  the  robes  so  briefly  worn 

They  drooped, — and  then  my  sorrow  came. 

For,  hour  by  hour,  my  daughters  fair, 
I  watched  them  pine  away  in  grief; 

Pale  grew  they  each  in  mute  despair, 
And  I  could  offer  no  relief. 

Then,  one  by  one,  they  dropped  away, — 
The  saddest  thing  to  feel  and  see, — 

Till,  on  this  sad  autumnal  day, 
No  single  rose  is  left  to  me. 

My  roses  fair  are  dead,  are  dead, 
All  scattered  at  my  feet  they  lie ; 

My  joy  is  gone,  my  comfort  fled, 
My  hopes  are  withered, — let  me  die. 


VOICES   OF  THE  FOREST. 


53 


Pitying  zephyr  thai  listened  sought,  when  she  paused, 

to  console  her, 
Singing  a  song  full  of  hope,  and  dwelling  upon  the 

bright  future. 

THE   ZEPHYR. 

We  sadly  mourn  our  dead  ; — yet  why, 
Since  life  but  teaches  us  to  die  ? 
Calm  faith  forbids  our  souls  to  sigh, 

And  weep  the  precious  hours  away. 
Death  is  a  night  of  dreamless  sleep, 
The  tranquillest  of  slumbers  deep  ; 
The  dead  weep  not,  why  should  we  weep, 

That  soon  shall  rest  as  soft  as  they  ? 

Quick  life  is  born  of  dull  decay ; 
Night  travails  with  the  birth  of  day; 
God's  creatures  all  shall  live  alway, 

Though  death  their  atoms  re-arrange. 
Though  frost  hath  killed  thy  roses  fair 
And  left  thy  fond  arms  thin  and  bare, 
Bright  spring  the  ravage  shall  repair 

With  roses  sweeter  for  the  change. 

Still  in  the  forest  I  lingered, — the  charm  was  too  strong 

for  swift  breaking : 
Leaning  against  a  tall  pine  I  closed  my  eyes  softly  and 

listened. 
The  sweet,  single  voices  were  hushed,  but,  like  the  calm 

thunder  of  organs, 
Breaking  the  waves  of  the  air  into  billows  of  rapturous 

music, 

5* 


54 


VOICES   OF   THE   FOREST. 


Came  the  great  voice  of  the  forest,  in  harmonies  set  by 

the  Master, 
Chanting  His  own  hymn  of  praise.     In  my  soul  all 

those  passionate  harp-strings 
That  vibrate  but  speak  not  were  swept   by  invisible 

hands,  till  they  quivered 
And  ached  with  an  agonized  effort  to  voice  the  grand 

music  of  silence. 
Wildly  and  vainly  I  longed  to  know  the  unknowable 

secret, 
And  tell  of  unspeakable  things.     But  soon  the  grand 

voice  of  the  forest 
Brought  me  its  own  sublime  calm,  and  seemed  like  the 

voice  of  a  mother. 
Then  my  soul  took  up  the  psalm  in  wonder  and  awful 

thanksgiving. 

HYMN. 

Infinite,  Unknowable,  Unknown  !  • 

Thou,  God,  whom  we  not  understand 

And  therefore  worship,  Thou  hast  shown 
To  us  Thy  works,  but  not  Thine  hand. 

Of  Thee  all  creatures  talk,  yet  tell 
Their  story  and  not  Thine.    We  know 

The  mute,  wise  speech  of  Nature  well ; 
She  leads  our  steps,  that  stumble  slow 

Far  through  the  dim,  mysterious  past, — 
Whose  tale  she  dumbly  doth  rehearse, — 

Unto  an  awful,  shapeless  Vast 
That  travails  with  the  universe. 


VOICES   OF   THE  FOREST. 

Father  of  suns  !  first-born  of  things  ! 

With  horrid  labor,  in  our  sight 
Thou  bringest  forth  in  fiery  rings 

The  monarchs  of  the  day  and  night. 

Through  mists  of  atoms,  nebulous, 
We  grope  to  Darkness— awful  Space, 

Yet  ONE  is  still  unseen  of  us, — 
Primeval  darkness  veils  His  face. 

O  God  !  I  know  not  what  Thou  art, 
But,  in  the  stillness  of  this  wood, 

No  doubt  disturbs  my  tranquil  heart ; 
I  know  that  Thou  art  wise  and  good. 

All  things  do  glorify  Thy  name 

With  songs,  sweet  scents,  and  happy  ways; 
My  soul  mounts  upward  like  a  flame, 

Blown  by  the  rushing  wind  of  praise. 

On  this  deep  harmony  of  calm 
I  may  not  jar  with  one  loud  word, 

But  let  me  join  the  holy  psalm 

With  mute  heart-music,  only  heard 

By  Thee,  great  Master,  whose  wide  ear 
Earth's  harsh,  discordant  miseries 

And  life's  unuttered  woes  dost  hear 
Attuned  to  heavenly  harmonies. 

In  Thy  rich  peace  all  longing  dies  ; 

Joy  floods  all  vain  desires  back  ; 
Yet,  like  the  flowers,  with  upturned  eyes 

I  pray,  though  conscious  of  no  lack. 


55 


56  LAWYER  AND  POET. 

Give  me  some  length  of  such  calm  days, 
And  flower-lapped  slumber  at  the  close, 

That  I,  through  Thy  mysterious  ways, 
May  live  again  in  some  sweet  rose. 


LAWYER    AND    POET. 

O  RARE  battalion  of  buff-jerkined  knights, 

That  on  my  shelves  huddle  like  sheep  together  ! 

Heroes  of  dusty  fields  and  wordy  fights  ! 

Proudly  you  wear  your  well-scarred  coats  of  leather 

Right  learned  Thebans  are  ye  !  well  ye  know  it ! 

Dry  as  arithmetic  and  grave  as  Moses ; 
You're  genial  comrades  for  a  madcap  poet 

That  loves  the  songs  of  birds  and  smell  of  posies ! 

Graybeard  old  tomes  whose  tilting  days  are  done 
(Of  the  pure  common  law  the  murky  fountain), 

Crabbed  old  Coke,  that  upon  Littleton 

Rid'st  like  an  ugly  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain, — 

Saunders  the  dusty-mouthed,  that  lives  on  pleas, 
And  chip-dry  Chitty,  ye  are  lightsome  fairies  ! 

With  Blackstone  only  can  I  take  mine  ease, 
For  he  wrote  rhymes  as  well  as  Commentaries. 

And  you,  ye  younkers,  that  fresh  calf-skin  wear ! 

New  dressers  of  old  dolls  !   rag-patchwork  makers  ! 
Delvers  in  dust-heaps,  spreading,  with  grand  air, 

Your  fathers'  learned  ashes,  yards  o'er  acres  ! 


TWO    THOUGHTS. 


57 


I  tremble  in  your  company,  for  fear 

You'll  dry  up  my  heart's  springs  with  your   glum 

faces, 
So  that  I  nevermore  shall  love  to  hear 

The  robin  sing,  nor  see  the  early  daisies. 

So  be  it  never.     For  my  daily  bread, 

Knightlings,  I'll  march  before  you  into  battle ; 

But,  when  the  day  is  done,  with  unhelmed  head 
I'll  walk  the  woods  and  hear  the  crickets  rattle. 


TWO    THOUGHTS. 

"  LOVE  cometh  quickly  like  a  shy  young  bird 
That,  frightened,  flies  for  refuge  to  my  breast, 
His  feathery  bosom  to  my  bosom  prest, 
His  tiny  wings  now  still,  now  terror-stirred  :" 
So  said  the  bard.     I  would  not  have  it  so, 

For,  terror  past,  love's  bird  would  quickly  flee, 
Lured  by  a  thousand  voices,  leaving  me 
Birdless  and  loveless,  sad  that  he  should  go. 
Come  love  to  me  as  a  wind-sailing  seed 
And  strand  upon  the  garden  of  my  heart, 
There  cling  with  tiny  roots  till  green  shoots  start 
And  grow  to  lovely  shrubs ;  then  let  these  breed 
Plants  like  themselves,  till  all  the  ways  and  bowers 
Are  sweetened  by  the  breath  of  many  flowers. 


5 8       TO  A  FRIEND   ON  HIS   WEDDING-DAY. 


TO    A    FRIEND    ON    HIS    WEDDING- 
DAY. 

IF  there  do  joys  in  heaven  remain 

More  deep  than  mortals  e'er  have  known ; 

If  there  be  blessings  sweet  as  rain, 
Or  breath  of  flowers  newly  blown  ; 

If  there  be  any  blessed  thing 

Can  fill  the  heart  with  rapture  new, 

My  fervent  strivings  while  I  sing 
Shall  call  it  down  to  dwell  with  you. 

How  many  miles,  O  long-time  friend, 

Divide  us  on  thy  wedding-day  ! 
But  love  doth  to  the  absent  lend 

Swift  wings  to  cleave  the  blue  delay ; 

I'm  with  you;  I,  an  unseen  guest, 
Bring  my  small  offering  of  bloom  ; 

I  stand  and  wait  till  heaven  hath  blest 
The  kneeling,  happy  bride  and  groom. 

And  now  rise  up,  no  longer  twain, 

Rise  up  and  bless  the  happy  day ; 
The  glad  wind  pipes  a  merry  strain, 

The  trees  strew  red  leaves  in  your  way. 

The  birds  have  sought  a  milder  clime, — 
All  but  a  faithful  few,  who  stay 


MORNING. 

Beyond  their  summer  singing-time 
To  trill  for  you  a  roundelay. 

The  sky  above  is  fretted  fair 

With  white  clouds  piled  against  its  blue : 
Dame  Nature  claims  a  mother's  share 

In  your  delight,  and  smiles  at  you. 

Speak  not :  the  deepest  thoughts  are  dumb, 

And  loving  eyes  are  eloquent. 
Permit  no  thought  of  grief  to  come 

To  mar  the  present,  calm  content. 

Heed  not  the  future.     He  is  wise 
Who  hid  it  close  behind  a  veil ; 

All  seasons  have  some  smiling  skies, 
Some  clattering  storms  of  smiting  hail ; 

But  love  shall  sing  when  sorrow  lowers, 
Love's  hand  sustain  when  tempests  beat, 

And  strew  life's  path  so  deep  with  flowers 
Its  thorns  shall  hardly  find  your  feet. 


59 


MORNING. 

(A   FRAGMENT.) 

SWEETLY  the  smiling  Prince  of  Day, 
Slow  sailing  over  seas  of  gray 
Upon  his  golden  boat,  the  sun, 
Far  off  among  the  shadows  dun, 


60  MORNING. 

Approaches  in  the  eastern  sky. 

Anon,  his  scarlet  pennons  fly 

In  rosy  undulations  fair 

Athwart  the  heavens  bleak  and  bare. 

His  mother,  night,  in  funeral  boat 

Upon  the  self-same  sea  afloat, 

Awaits,  as  he  comes  on  apace, 

To  fold  him  in  one  long  embrace ; 

Then  drapes  her  sad  robes  o'er  her  breast, 

And  steers  her  pinnace  slowly  west. 

The  breeze,  which  all  night  long  has  sighed 
Like  one  lamenting  a  lost  bride 
Who  wanders  up  and  down  in  grief, 
Seeking  in  vain  to  find  relief 
In  wild  bemoaning  of  his  loss, — 
Now  rippling  o'er  the  unripe  wheat, 
Just  touching  earth  with  shining  feet, 
Comes  flying  the  smooth  fields  across. 

The  flowers  lift  up  their  tearful  eyes 
And  welcome  him  with  glad  surprise ; 
The  trees  lift  up  their  hands  to  bless, 
And  bow  their  heads  in  thankfulness ; 
While  in  their  tops  the  song-birds  swing, 
And  morning  smiles  to  hear  them  sing. 

The  river  rolls  its  glistening  waves 
Beneath  the  silent  hill  of  graves, 
And  sports  in  happy,  playful  mood, 
With  modest  flowers  that  fringe  the  wood. 
The  hills,  great  guardian  giants  stand, 
Protectors  of  the  lowlier  land, 


A   SUMMER   NIGHT.  6 1 

One  round,  unbroken  ring  of  green, 
Save  where  the  rivers  wind  between. 

Oh  !  it  is  sweet  in  summer's  prime 
To  hear  the  bird's  melodious  rhyme ; 
To  see  the  flowers'  dew-drowned  heads ; 
And  watch  the  mounting  sun,  that  sheds, 
In  mellow  showers  that  slanting  fall, 
Its  golden  glory  over  all. 

The  earth  is  green,  the  sky  is  fair, 
And  cordial  is  the  cool,  fresh  air, 
That  drinks  the  perfume  of  the  flowers, 
And  from  each  tree  rains  crystal  showers ; 
Bright  meadows,  smiling  fields,  and  river 
All  in  a  sparkling,  glittering  quiver; 
Between  close  hills  that  bound  the  view 
Blue  vistas  vanishing  in  blue ; 
The  whole  sweet  earth  beneath  us  spread, 
And  the  fair  firmament  o'erhead 
Seems  fresh,  and  pure,  and  glad,  and  gay, 
As  if  'twere  nature's  holiday. 


A    SUMMER    NIGHT. 

A  SLEEPING  river,  coiled  among  the  hills 

Like  a  huge  serpent  wrought  in  polished  steel ; 

A  watching  moon  whose  silver  fount  distils 
Soft  floods  that  earthward  tremulously  reel ; 
6 


62  POESY. 

Myriads  of  fire-flies,  each  with  torch  a-light, 

Through  the  soft  haze  like  little  meteors  gleam, 
Their  twinkling  shadows  nestling  for  the  night 
Close  by  fair  starlets  bosomed  in  the  stream  ; 
All  to  my  soul  appeareth  as  a  dream. 
Our  earth  was  never  wont  to  be  so  fair, 
Nor  ever  breathed  so  soft  an  evening  air, 
Nor  came  such  perfume  from  earth's  rarest  flowers. 
Sweetheart !  thy  beauty  fills  this  world  of  ours, 
And  Nature  is  more  sweet  for  love  of  thee. 


POESY. 

LIKE  a  young  bird  of  song  in  prison  pent, 

That  spends  its  strength  in  struggling  to  be  free, 
Then  folds  its  useless  wings  all  wearily 
And  dreams  of  flights  high  as  the  firmament, 
My  prisoned  soul  in  struggles  vain  had  spent 
Its  little  strength,  and  sunk  in  mute  despair. 
Sweet  dreams  came  whispering  of  the  realms  of  air, 
But  left  new  torture  when  their  ways  they  went. 
Then  thou,  O  goddess  !  came  my  bars  within, 
Flooding  the  darkness  with  celestial  light, 
Drowning  despair  in  oceans  of  delight, 
Sweeping  sweet  chords  that  silent  aye  had  been, 
And  touching  my  dumb  lips,  that,  opening, 
I  did  forget  my  chains  in  joy  that  I  could  sing. 


BUT.  63 


BUT. 

IN  the  dusk  of  the  evening  the  garden  is  sweet 

With  the  breath  and  love-kisses  of  blossoms  and 

breeze. 
I  hear  the  low  fountains  like  pattering  feet, 

And  the  drowsy  good-nights  of  the  birds  in  the 

trees. 

But  without  I  must  wait, 
Bemoaning  my  fate ; 
For  a  savage  fierce  mastiff  lies  guarding  the  gate. 

The  music  of  heaven — the  voice  and  the  harp — 

Co'mes  faint  from  the  garden.    The  pink  peach-trees 

near 

Shed  their  petals  with  rapture.     My  senses  are  sharp 
With  longing,  yet  only  a  measure  I  hear. 
Nearer,  nearer, — but  see, 
'Neath  yon  thorn-apple  tree 
Stands  grim  Father  Moneybags  frowning  at  me. 

Ah,  vision  of  beauty  !     Sweet  child  of  my  dreams  ! 

With  voice  of  an  angel  and  face  of  a  sprite  ! 
The  blood  in  my  veins  leaps  in  passionate  streams. 
O  twin  of  my  soul,  never  known  till  to-night ! 
But  evil  betide 
That  fine  knave  at  thy  side, 
Who  scowls  like  a  storm  as  I  gaze  at  his  bride. 


64  WITHERED    VIOLETS. 


WITHERED   VIOLETS. 

IN  A  LETTER  FROM  THE  SOUTH. 

DEAR,  dead  children  of  the  spring ! 
Happy  are  the  thoughts  you  bring. 
Still  about  each  faded  mouth 
Hangs  the  perfume  of  the  south  ; 
Tells  how  sweet  ye  died,  and  blest, 
Gently  rocked  on  Hilda's  breast. 
Ah,  ye  thought  not,  dead,  to  be 
Bearers  of  her  thought  to  me  ! 

Little  flow'rs,  that  in  a  day 
Breathed  your  baby  lives  away, 
You  could  make  the  world  more  sweet 
Blossoming  at  Hilda's  feet ; 
You  could  add  another  grace 
Even  to  her  perfect  face  ; 
And  you  bless  me  still  in  death 
With  the  rapture  of  your  breath  ! 

Not  the  largest  life  bequeaths 
Most  to  man.     Our  heroes'  wreaths, 
Dearly  bought  with  many  tears, 
Sweeten  not  the  bitter  years. 
Happy  who  the  world  can  bless 
With  some  drops  of  happiness ; 
Die,  and  leave  around  his  name — 
Like  violets'  breath — a  perfumed  fame. 


WITH  A    COPY  OF   WALTON'S  "ANGLER."      65 


WITH     A     COPY     OF    WALTON'S 
"ANGLER." 

GOOD  father  Walton,  who  so  well  as  thou 

Knowest  the  fisher's  art  ? 
Give  me  a  little  lesson.     Teach  me  how 

To  angle  for  a  heart. 

What  love-awakening  lure?  what  rod  and  line? 

What  artful  fishery  ? 
Father,  thy  hand  is  skilfuller  than  mine, 

Go,  angle  thou  for  me. 


fishing  with  thee  by  the  Dove, 
And,  on  its  sandy  brink,  — 

Show  her  my  footprints,  and  straight  speak  of  love 
While  she  of  me  doth  think. 

With  thy  wise  prattle,  in  my  best-loved  spots 

Do  thou  her  time  beguile  ; 
Pluck  heart's-ease  for  her  and  forget-me-nots, 

And  speak  of  me  the  while. 

Teach  her  to  snare  the  fishes  ;  her  soft  heart 

Will  melt  their  pain  to  see, 
And,  pitying  them,  perchance  the  gentle  smart 

May  make  her  pity  me. 


66  SUSPENSE. 


SUSPENSE. 

OH,  sweet,  brief  dream  of  lover's  bliss  ! 

One  happy  summer's  day 
I  heard  a  drum,  I  felt  a  kiss, 

I  saw  him  march  away. 

I've  waited  long  in  hope  and  fear, 

And  many  times  have  seen 
The  woods-fringed  hills  grow  brown  and  sere 

That,  when  he  left,  were  green. 

My  aching  heart  dare  not  despair ; 

It  aches,  but  will  not  break ; 
Hope  smiles,  but  proves  a  thing^of  air 

When  I  her  hand  would  take. 

My  darkest  midnight  has  some  gleam 

Of  joy.     In  slumber  deep 
I  dream  that  sorrow  is  a  dream, 

And  bless  God  in  my  sleep ; — 

But,  waking,  find  her  as  of  old 

Still  watching  by  my  bed, 
To  greet  me  with  her  kisses  cold 

And  clammy  as  the  dead. 

Each  day  I  think  Despair  has  come 

My  last  weak  hope  to  kill ; 
Yet  I  can  never  hear  a  drum 

Without  a  joyful  thrill. 


THE  HILL.  67 

I  mourn  my  dead,  yet  do  not  dare 

Calm  resignation  learn ; 
My  foolish  eyes  will  not  forbear 

To  watch  for  his  return. 


THE    HILL. 

A  SONG-BIRD  soaring  toward  yon  smiling  hill 
Seems  luring  me  to  walk.     With  eager  step 
I  climb  the  lofty  steep,  oft  looking  back 
At  the  fair  landscape,  widening  as  I  rise. 
Half  up  I  pause  o'erwearied,  where  a  rock 
Shaggy  with  lichen  offers  me  a  seat, 
And, "as  I  rest,  look  down  with  happy  eyes 
Into  a  nest-like  valley. 

All  rare  tints 

That  autumn  knows,  her  brush  hath  laid  upon 
This  bit  of  earth, — dusk  purple  distances, 
Pale  green  of  springing  wheat,  warm  brown  of  fields, 
Dead  gold  of  stubble  grain.     The  uncouth  hills, 
Wrapped  in  their  forest  mantles,  she  hath  touched 
With  frost-tipped  pencil  till  they  show  all  shades 
Of  all  rich  colors  ;  and  like  giant  kings 
Attired  for  coronation  they  appear, 
Gazing  into  the  river  at  their  feet 
In  wonder  at  their  new  magnificence. 

Here  on  the  hill-side  silence  makes  her  home, 
And  rules  her  down-shod  breezes,  that  scarce  raise 
A  whisper  in  the  pines.     The  smothered  sounds 


68  THE  HILL. 

Of  life,  that  from  the  lazy  village  rise 

At  intervals,  but  make  more  deep  the  hush 

Of  each  succeeding  pause.     The  pictured  world 

X,ies  motionless,  and  the  vibrating  air 

Is  thick  with  azure  haze. 

I  mount  toward  the  summit.     Ah  !  the  scene 

With  each  step  broadens,  beautifully  dim. 

How  gently  stirs  the  air !     Yet  on  yon  knoll 

A  melancholy  maple  sways  in  grief 

Knee-deep  in  her  own  leaves,  o'er  which  she  seems 

To  spread  her  gaunt  arms  lovingly,  as  if 

To  keep  the  breeze  from  stealing  them  away. 

The  pines  and  hemlocks,  with  their  boughs  still  green, 

Stand  like  apostates,  shamed,  but  full  of  fear, 

While  their  half-barren  comrades  faithfully 

Do  comfort  one  another  with  hushed  words, 

Like  fellow-martyrs  on  the  eve  of  death. 

Hark  !    Now  the  wind  of  night  comes  stalking  through 

The  forest  at  my  back.     The  shy  grouse  hears 

His  footstep  on  the  leaves  and  whirrs  aloft, 

While  some  lone  warbler,  hiding  in  the  gloom, 

Chaunts  in  one  note  a  rhapsody  of  woe. 

O  lovely  year  !     Thy  beauty  saddens  me, 

For  'tis  thy  dying  blossom.     Even  thus, 

When  death  has  marked  our  loved  ones  for  his  own, 

His  pity  sheds  upon  their  fading  forms 

The  glamour  of  the  skies,  that  we  who  weep 

May  cherish  sweeter  memories-pf  the  lost. 

O,  year  beloved  !  as  fades  this  perfect  day 
So  fades  thy  life.     In  thy  divinest  hour 


THE  HILL.  69 

The  snows  of  winter  fall  upon  thy  head 

And  hide  thee  from  our  eyes.     Yet,  God  be  thanked  ! 

There's  nothing  dies  with  dying.     Even  when 

The  boisterous  winter  reigns,  and  through  the  woods 

Ride  vandal  winds  that  blind  the  trees  with  snow, 

Oppressing  earth  with  icy  javelins, 

There  will  come  moments,  'midst  the  howling  storm, 

When,  like  a  dream  of  home  to  one  in  chains, 

The  peaceful  vision  of  this  tranquil  hour 

Shall  rise  to  still  the  longing  of  our  hearts. 

O  gentle  year  !  may  my  death  be  like  thine  ! 
May  I,  like  thee,  grow  beautifully  old, 
Death  creeping  on  as  slowly  as  to  thee 
Comes  winter's  snowy  twilight.     May  white  hairs 
Bring  grander  days,  that,  when  at  last  the  frost 
Lies  chill  upon  my  cheek,  some  kindly  voice 
May  say  above  my  head  :   "  His  latest  days 
Were  even  his  happiest.     He  passed  away 
As  one  who  in  the  evening  falls  asleep." 


THE    END. 


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